


Nothing At All

by MooseFeels



Series: Revelation [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse survival, Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Depression, Domestic, Infertility, M/M, Omega Dean, PTSD, Pack Dynamics, Small community, abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean adjusts to the new house; Castiel adjusts to being important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The bed is soft and warm and big.

It's four poster, with tall, columnar posts driving into the air from each corner. It's made of dark, rich wood, a kind of red color. White hangings are above and around it, quilted and thick, but they are parted from the sides. An eiderdown is on the bed. Pillows, many of them, lean against the headboard, which is simply carved. The walls are painted a soft, deep blue. Thick, heavy curtains frame the huge, broad window. There's a couple of dressers and a door that leads to a bathroom. All this, Dean looks at as he sits on the bed. He looks at the room, he looks at his legs. He looks at the floor.

"Sorry it still smells like cleaner and...dusting," Castiel says, standing near the bed. "I've been cleaning and it still smells like...cleaning. But it's better than it was a little bit earlier. I tried to get the bedrooms first and get the linens out of mothballs but some things are...it'll pass. I'm- are you...are you hungry? Or thirsty?"

Dean looks at him. So nervous, so tightly wound. So high strung.

Dean doesn't understand why Castiel gets so wound up about him. For him.

God, he's so tired, but this place doesn't feel right yet. It still feels foreign in a way that gets under his skin. Wrong. It doesn't smell like Castiel, like the cabin did, and it doesn't smell like Dean. It doesn't smell like the sea or the woods-- it's empty. It's a space empty of scent and memory and shape. It's a space that means nothing right now.

Castiel bites his bottom lip.

Dean pulls out his paper pad and writes on it in his loose, lazy hand, _I'm tired._  


Castiel looks at what's been written for a long time, and then he says softly, "Do you want me to leave you be?"

Dean shakes his head. He pats the bed.

Castiel doesn't say anything, but he does step forward and sit down next to him.

Dean leans on him.

He sighs for a long time.

Castiel moves his hand hesitantly forward and smooths Dean's hair, scratches his scalp.

Dean closes his eyes.

"After confessions and counseling and discussion, if something you had done...if it was very wrong, they went to the Alpha's Lodge and sometimes...they didn't come back. Or they didn't come back for a few days. Or they'd come back with shaved heads or bruises- if they came back it was _always_ with bruises." Dean pauses for a long moment. "They liked to shave the girls in particular. Pride is a sin, and Eve was the first to commit it."

Castiel's hand pauses for the barest shape of a second. 

"I thought...I can't shake the feeling that...that's why we're here," Dean continues. "Because- because I can't...I can't give you a baby."

"I'm not that man," Castiel says. "I swear to you, wholly. I'm not that man. I know that doesn't put away your fear or your instinct, but- I'm not that man."

They are silent together a little longer before Castiel says, "This will never be that. This was- this was my home, as a kid and it was where my mother and father set the table."

Dean bites his own lip for a moment, before Castiel presses on. "This place was joyful. I want to be joyful here again-- I want to be joyful with you. I want to start a home with you. This place is powerful because...because...Dean, I will not lie to you- you and I are _important_ here. You're an omega, you're the only one here in the pack. And you're an artist, beloved, did you know- has Benny told you? In the city, when they talk about our pack, it is where Dean Winchester lives- the _artist_. Apparently, some writer has been trying to write an article about your or something but Benny's been fending him off-"

"Our pack," Dean says, interrupting.

He sits up, and looks at Castiel.

"Our pack," he repeats.

Castiel pales, suddenly.

Dean smiles at him, for a moment.

Castiel nods, the color returning slowly. "Our," he answers.

Dean smiles a little wider.

That uneasiness, it doesn't disappear, but it does abate. It does _unclench_.

Dean can trust Castiel, even if it's hard. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Castiel wakes up in the morning, it's to the soft fall of rain outside, leaving a pattering sound on the windows, a constant rhythm. It's a familiar, easy sound-- a kind of background radiation that always runs, that's always running. He opens his eyes slowly, and the room is full of that cold, blue light that's after sunup on an overcast day.

Dean is still sleeping, his eyes eased shut. He's still wearing his clothes from yesterday; god only knows the last time Dean changed.

The news stung. The news _hurt_. It hurts to imagine this place without the footsteps of pups or their cries or their laughter. It hurts to imagine that they won't have a child that's theirs by blood, that Castiel won't get to help Dean through a pregnancy, through a childbirth. They can still adopt, though, still fill this place with the feet of children who will be theirs by other bonds, but--

It still hurts.

And Castiel can see that hurt on Dean; he can see it vividly. He sees himself as a disappointment, and that makes Castiel _ache_.

 Castiel reaches forward and brushes Dean's hair away from his temples. Dean twists into the touch, sighs a little bit. His scar is visible from this side, huge and white-pink on the the surface of his skin. Hair doesn't grow there, and the skin doesn't freckle or get acne there either. The bandage is less common than it used to be, an occurrence for once or twice a week and not constant, and that's good. It shows a kind of healing, Castiel thinks. Castiel hopes. He hopes that it's enough to make some kind of change. Some kind of something.

Dean's eyes flutter a little and open. 

"Coffee," Dean murmurs, his voice uneven from sleep.

Castiel smiles.

Castiel gets up from the bed slowly, carefully, and tiptoes downstairs into the kitchen.

The dishes have been cleaned and placed back in their cabinets, but the pantry and fridge are still mostly empty. Castiel frowns at them. He should go into town today and get groceries.

There's a knock on the door suddenly, and Castiel turns to look at it.

There's a knock again.

Castiel looks down at himself. He's not wearing pants, just his underwear and a t-shirt. He frowns.

The knock comes again.

Castiel dashes toward the door and opens it.

Gabriel is standing there, Anna not too far behind him. They're both carrying _enormous_ bags, overwhelming them.

"You gonna let me in?" he demands. "This shit's heavy."

Castiel steps out of the way, and Gabriel walks through the foyer, past the living room and into the kitchen.

"We heard you were moving back in," Anna says, walking in. "We figured you would need some housewarming stuff."

Castiel looks at his sister and his brother and he says, "I'm not wearing clothes."

"Put some on," Gabriel exclaims from the kitchen. "I'm going to make coffee."

Castiel closes the front door and quietly toes back up the stairs.

When he opens the bedroom door again, Dean is sitting upright in bed, rubbing at his eyes.

"Hello, beloved," Castiel says softly. He opens a dresser and slips into a pair of jeans. "Anna and Gabriel are downstairs- apparently they're making breakfast or something- I'm not sure. Their appearance is sudden and-"

Dean slips off the bed, to his feet, and he leans forward and kisses Castiel, a quick, casual peck on the lips.

He steps out of the bedroom and heads downstairs.

Castiel watches him go.

He zips his fly and steps downstairs himself, where the scent of coffee brewing greets him. Anna is loading things into the fridge and there's the sound of something frying or maybe just being mixed- there's the industrious sound of _cooking_.

Dean is in front of the stove, working at something _furiously_ and Gabriel is whisking something else, himself.

"I was just telling Dean, I told him that nothing says 'moving in' like _cream puffs_."

"It's nine in the morning," Castiel says. "That much sugar-"  
"They won't be ready for a few hours yet, and we've already got bacon going in the oven and we brought bagels- good lord, Cassie, I'm not an _animal,"_ Gabriel responds, and Dean huffs out a soft laugh at that.

"Flour, sugar, eggs, butter, milk, juice, some fresh vegetables, some meat," Anna says. "And I know there's some stuff at your cabin still that you'll want to get but- for the first forty eight hours? At the very least? I couldn't live with myself if I thought that you and Dean didn't have anything to eat for a few days."

Castiel smiles at his sister. "Thank you," he says. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

"Don't burn it," Gabriel says over Dean's shoulder. "There we go- one direction- yeah."

Dean looks over his shoulder at Castiel, an incredible expression.

  
_Do you believe this asshole?_ It says.

Castiel grins at him, and he pulls out a couple of mugs and pours them coffee.

It's a beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Four hours later, Dean has filled a mountain of cream puffs and stacked them into a pyramid on a cake dish. He's been working at it diligently while Anna and Gabriel and Castiel have drifted in and out of the house for the past few hours, moving Castiel's kitchen and clothes and possessions more fully into the house. Apparently the furniture and dishes and sheets-- they're all left from when the house was last inhabited, years ago now. It gives the place a strange quality, something like an emptiness, a hollowness that is strange. It is still empty. It is still _waiting._ Someone else's art and posters hang on the walls-- no pictures. Someone else's dishes, someone else's sheets. It's not Dean's house yet, and it doesn't smell like Castiel yet, either. It's nowhere. It's anticipating. 

Dean still feels that awful, nagging _emptiness._ He feels it like a chase, like there is something on his tail, all the time, and if he stops...if he stops for just one moment, it will catch him and devour him whole.

So Dean makes cream puffs, leaning against his kitchen counter, his tongue sticking out in concentration.

And now the cream puffs are finished.

Dean looks at the pile, towering, and he considers what comes next. 

He thinks about turning up the water, as hot as it will go, and thrusting his clenched fist into the stream for as long as he can stand it. Something about that sounds  _right_. 

Gabriel walks in, mid thought, and assesses the pile of cream puffs.

"Not bad," he murmurs. "I should teach you how to make caramel; make a croquembouche. Best Christmas _ever_."

Dean smiles at Gabriel, who is all nervous, buzzing energy, like a net full of fish or a hive full of bees. Gabriel has that same tension, that same _hungry_ look. That same _chased_ quality.

Dean's glad he's here.

"Tomorrow, you wanna head to your studio? Grab some clothes? What's in your kitchen?"

Dean nods.

"You should keep the space," Gabriel says. "You could put a loom in my old room but I don't think it's going to through one of the doors without disassembly and frankly, I will not help with that."

Dean nods again. Putting it together the first time had been hard enough; he wouldn't wish that second time on himself or anyone else.

Gabriel smiles at him, barest quirk.

"How you holding up?" He asks.

Dean shrugs, in a way he hopes is  _honest_. That explains what he's feeling, what it's like. The  _chase_.

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, me too. Castiel told me. That's it though, just me and Anna. And we're the only ones that have to know, if you'd like it like that. You don't have to tell everyone everything, you know? That was always...that, I think, is what Castiel's problem with being  _Alpha_ has been, you know? Growing up, Dad was...Dad was involved. He did everything and knew everyone, I mean, hell, you've seen the size of the house-- half of these rooms were occupied every night. No secrets. Dad had no secrets with the pack. We were  _public_ and we lived publicly and it meant that-- it meant that when we fall apart, everyone knew and everyone saw."

He pauses. "Castiel loves you," he says. "I mean, I know he tells you, but he does. He was hollow, for a long time. He's not hollow any more. He wanted to be full, for you. That's what love is. It's wanting to be better, so you can actually be what someone else sees when they see you."

Dean looks at Gabriel, whose eyes have gotten a little soft. Pulled out of a kind of focus. Here but not here. 

He blinks, and turns back to Dean, eyes suddenly sharp again. "You wanna see something?" He asks.

 Dean nods.

"I don't know if Castiel ever told you," he begins, "about...me. Or that time I jaunted off." He pauses a moment. "I got as far away as I could with the money I had made running the diner for a few years. Turns out- Sri Lanka. Met a journo there and uh-"  
He pulls out his wallet. Shows Dean a picture.

"Kali," he says. "Her parents named her Kailey, so she could assimilate and stuff in the States but she goes by Kali. I think to spite them- it's complicated. She's Kali, and she'll always be Kali to me. Not that that last part means a damn to her, because, _fuck_ , kiddo. That lady? Wow. I mean, she's not just beautiful, she's stubborn and tough and _angry_ and she  _cares_. She cares about things, makes  _me_ care about things. Care about everything."

It's a picture of Gabriel with a woman with long dark hair and deep, bright skin. She has tricky eyes-- the kind of eyes Gabriel has.

They're holding a pup.  
"That's our daughter-- our baby, Esther," he says.

She has bright eyes, clear and cool, but her mother's dark hair.

Dean looks up from the picture, at Gabriel.

"I send money," he says, shrugging. "And I write letters and letters and letters. Sometimes Kali writes back and sends cards. Calling is expensive, I can't really afford it. She's five now. She's beautiful- Kali has her in this crazy Kindergarten at the International school and she's so smart. I get her letters and pictures too, but...I can only make it out every once in a while, every couple of years."

Dean looks at Gabriel for a long, long time.

"Kali and I, we love each other, but it's complicated. We love each other like Cesium and water love each other or maybe fire and oil love each other. Very bright, very hot, lots of damage." He chuckles to himself. "No way for a kid to live, like that. We agreed, it was better like this. Miss her though. Both of them."

There's a fond look in his eye.

He tucks the picture back in his wallet.

"Neither of them know," he says, softly. "Just us, okay, buckaroo?"

Dean looks at him, seriously, and nods.

Gabriel smiles again, and pats Dean on the shoulder.

Dean knows, completely, that Gabriel is being chased too, and that he is running.

Dean looks at the pile of cream puffs, and he pops one in his mouth before finding Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! In the past few days my patreon has blown up! Thank you guys so much for your support! It means the world to me!  
> If you haven't supported my patreon and you are fabulously wealthy and interested in supporting my works-- please consider supporting it! Supporters get access to a special behind-the-scenes blog with chapter and story previews, and 15-20 dollar supporters get super special, fic from me just for you!  
> https://www.patreon.com/moosefeels


	4. Chapter 4

There's still a lot to do on the house. The back is a mess still- years and years of fallen leaves piled up in a mess, waiting to be raked and disposed of (Castiel is absently considering setting up a compose heap; he'll want to garden out here, now that he's so far from the hunting grounds). The exterior needs a coat of paint, and he's sure there's a few places in the roof that need a good patch-- honestly, he'd like to rip up and replace the whole thing, but he'll need to wait a year or two before doing that; it's expensive and with the other, more pressing repairs, it's going to be expensive. The doors need to be replaced; the windows should be replaced with something more energy efficient; the wood composing the porch needs to be taken care of. He'll be working on it for a good, long time, and that means he's going to be around the house more or less constantly for the next two or three weeks.

Benny and Bobby have promised to keep the town together as best they can while Castiel takes time.

He's going to be more active; more social and _present_ in the community, but first, he needs to move in with Dean.  

Castiel is sitting on the concrete stoop of the backdoor when it opens and Dean steps out, onto the second step. He sits down and wraps his arms around Castiel. He smells like the sugar he's been working with all day, sugar and cream and fat. There's something delightful about it; something wicked. It makes that thing inside Castiel purr like an engine. Under that sticky sweet, crystalline smell is that smell that is uniquely Dean's. Earthy, like dark, turned soil and something else like pine resin. The sugar smell gives it all a strangeness, and when Dean nestles his nose into the crook of Castiel's neck, he can catch something like the barest edge of seafoam, something tidal.

"You've been cooking," Castiel says, for lack of anything else to say.

Dean nods, his chin digging into Castiel's shoulder.

They sit together, on the steps, in the quiet. It's late afternoon now.

"Come upstairs," Dean whispers.

"I haven't showered today and I've been moving and-"

" _Come upstairs,"_ Dean repeats, pulling Castiel up and tugging him through the door.

They get into the kitchen, past the island and towards the dining room when Dean turns around and kisses Castiel, pressing him against the wall, a picture frame (Anna's high school graduation) digging into his spine firmly. He gasps into Dean, surprised, utterly, but not _bad_ surprised.

He falls into the kiss, letting Dean lap into his mouth gently, and softly. Dean kisses him like he means it. Like it's everything.

"Anna and-"

"They're gone," Dean interrupts. He kisses him again, his tongue licking Castiel's upper lip. He bites at his lower lip after a second, small, hard bites. They'll leave a mark. Castiel hopes they will

"Upstairs," Dean says, pulling away for just a moment, and he keeps tugging Castiel along, up the stairs and to the bedroom. To _their_ bedroom.

"Dean," Castiel says, "Dean what do you- I need you to tell me what you want-"  
"I'm ready," he says. "Almost five years now. Please. Please, Castiel- please, Cas, please." He pulls him into the room, kisses him again, along his jawline and about his mouth. "Please. No heat. It's just me. Please."

"I don't," Castiel says around the kiss, "I don't want to _hurt_ you-"

"I won't let you," Dean answers. "And you've never tried."

Castiel runs his hands down Dean's sides, fingers ghosting over his ribs, his strong, fine body. He tugs Dean's shirt up, and Dean begins to tug Castiel's shirt up and they get tangled, momentarily, in each other. Dean laughs, a little nervous, and Castiel follows the laughter. They join back together though, quickly, and they begin to stumble toward the bed. Dean lays back, and Castiel begins to tug his jeans off, revealing Dean's broad, muscular thighs, freckled _everywhere_. Like he is made of stars. It makes Castiel smile.

He can't stop smiling, he's touching Dean and he feels this same compulsion to kiss him again. He settles his hands just over Dean's hipbones and he kisses there, along the line of Dean's boxers. Dean laughs, a bare huff of a sound. His hands settle into Castiel's hair, and he scratches and tugs at Castiel's scalp.

Castiel moves upward, forward, and bites gently at Dean's pec, just to the right of his left nipple, he moves over and licks over the nipple with the broad part of his tongue.

Dean cries aloud, the sound like he has come up for air for the first time at the bottom of a swim.

There's so much to touch. There's so much to feel. Dean is so much, so beautiful, and so perfect.

He loves Dean, and he's buzzing with the ability to feel him. To touch him.

"Please," Dean pants, "please, oh my god-- _fuck_ , baby, fuck, please--"

Castiel begins to tug Dean's underwear slowly down, revealing more and more of his hips until it becomes that place a little below his hips and then Castiel is pulling his underwear down as quickly as he can, revealing Dean's hard cock, sitting amidst his dark blonde pubic hair.

Castiel wraps his hand around it, loosely, and jacks it once, twice.

Dean whimpers, and then he cries out again. His breath is loud; the loudest thing Castiel has ever heard.

He cants Dean's hips upward, kneeling between his legs. Dean's knees frame Castiel's torso, and every time Dean _jerks_ with the feeling, his legs twitch, his knees squeezing him. It makes Castiel smile, too.

He moves his middle finger up the cleft of Dean's (pert, firm) ass, and he feels the wetness of Dean's slick there.

Castiel's eyes roll back involuntarily.

He circles his finger around Dean's hole several times before he asks, "Do you want to flip over?"

Dean nods, panting heavily. They disentangle for a moment before Dean flips over and places his knees on the bed, lays his chest on the bed and sticks his ass in the air, practically in Castiel's face.

Castiel moans, something deep inside of himself. Something heavy and dense.

He leans forward, facefirst, and parts Dean's cheeks with his hands so he can lick at Dean's hole, at his slick, at his body. At that place inside Dean, that omega place. That other thing, that special thing.

Castiel has slept with a few men, a few women, but this is correct. This is _right_ , utterly. Completely.

He laps at Dean's asshole and Dean moans, he shudders, he sings. The taste of Dean is heavy on Castiel's tongue, something _unlike_. Something like that earthiness in Dean's scent; something like the minerality of the seafoam, something sweet and dark like sorghum or molasses. So complicated; so elemental. Castiel can't believe he's lived so long without this.

He can't believe he lived so long without Dean, who does more than complete him.

And Castiel plays him like an instrument. He teases at the edges of hole, at the rim-

"Please," Dean cries out. "Please, _fuck me."_  


Which turns out to be about more than Castiel can stand.

He leans up and undoes his own pants. His cock is hard, painfully so. He feels electric. He feels unreal.

He eases slowly into Dean, and Dean gasps and shudders and jolts, and they hold there, just as they are, for a moment before Dean begins to grind against Castiel.

Castiel is more than happy to oblige.

He fucks into Dean, rolling his hips and _moving_. He has one hand on his hips, gripping tight, and the other hand is on Dean's cock, jacking it as they move together.

Dean moans, happily.

"M-m-mark," Dean groans. "M-mark me, p-puh-please." His words are huffed and broken by the motion, by the exertion.

Castiel feels his knot begin to catch on Dean's rim and he feels a growl, low and deep boil out of his throat.

" _Yes_ ," Dean moans. "Please."

Castiel fucks into him, more firmly, harder, harder, harder, and then his knot _catches_ , hard, and in this bare, slight moment before comes, he drapes over Dean, to his neck, and he _bites_. Dean cries out, and Castiel feels his hole flutter tighter, his hole _clech_ , and then Dean's coming, too and then there's-

There's nothing. There's just Dean underneath him, the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most strong, the most- _the everything._ The everything.

Dean's everything.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean settles out of his own orgasm, blinding and bright white and intense, and he feels Castiel on top of him, still floating through his own. Castiel's going to come more or less continuously for the next hour, earthquakes and aftershocks as his knot keeps them sealed together. Dean doesn't mind though, he's in that sleepy, electric space after coming, not quite able to keep awake or fall asleep, just _drift_ , the rawness of it. The sensation of it is completely different from anything Dean has ever felt; has ever _sensed_. Even when it was just him, in the night, in his bed, it was never like this. This bright and all-consuming; it is like witnessing the birth of a star. It is like _being_ the death of a star.

 It's new, it's strange.

Dean also feels a connection, like he has been caught by something. He feels like he's been falling, like he was born falling.

He feels like he's not falling anymore. He feels _solid_.

On top of him, Castiel whimpers. The sound is high pitched and bright; animal.

"Love-love you," Casitel stutters. "G-god, beloved. Love you."

Dean falls asleep.

-

When Castiel wakes up, his knot has deflated and Dean is asleep underneath him. He pulls out, away from him and goes to the bathroom. He grabs a wet washcloth and cleans himself up; rinses it off and heads into the bedroom, where he cleans Dean up as carefully as he can, trying not to rouse him from his slumber.

He looks at his neck-- the bite is _there_ , undeniably, but it's not open and it's not bleeding. When they're both more awake, he'll sanitize it and put a bandage on, but for now, he just lets it be. Seeing it is viscerally satisfying. Seeing it in this house, that he has repaired and filled and fixed for Dean-- there's a very real rush there. It's like there's been a hole, all this time, and this is the puzzle piece that fills it in.

This is enough. This is everything.

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him close, nuzzles into his neck and shoulder to smell the scent of him deeply.

He blinks his eyes closed , falls back asleep.

-

When Dean wakes up again, the bed is almost unbearably warm. Castiel, wrapped around him, the blankets on top-- he pulls himself away, pulls it all off of himself, and stumbles to the bathroom. He pees, and as he's washing his hands, he looks up in the mirror and looks and himself.

The mark has healed now. It's still there. It'll always be there, just like how what had happened, that happened and that will always be there. That will always be a _part_ of Dean.

It's not all of him. It's not the most important part of him. But it is a part of him.

But it's not all of him.

He's an _artist_. He's a member of the pack. He's a brother. He's a _survivor_.

And he's loved.

He's more that he thought he would ever be.

And he has so much life to live.

He looks at himself in the mirror for a moment longer, and then he steps out of the bathroom and back to bed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a long time thinking about this work, and how it was going to end and what I wanted the ending to mean. And the thing is, I don't think it's about the end of Dean's life; I think it's about a beginning, and I wanted this to reflect that. There will probably be one or two timestamps come the holidays (because I am the biggest motherfucking sucker for Christmas and Thanksgiving fic), but yeah. I wanted to end on the beginning.   
> I worked quite hard on this! For very nearly a year! And your support-- your kudos, your comments, your questions-- have genuinely meant the world to me. Your support on Patreon has meant the world to me. The community that surrounds fanfiction has been really amazing for me, and has taught me so much about writing and so much about the kindness of strangers. I'm still not sure how all of you got here and found this, but you're here, and you've been so good to me while I've written this strange little story about fucked up people.  
> Thanks for all you've done on this wild-ass ride. I'm writing loads of other stuff, too. If you enjoyed this, I would recommend you check it out!


End file.
